Cold Hit

9

Laura tried to pass the telephone to me as I swept through her alcove. “It’s Rose. She just wants to warn you that Battaglia said he’d like an update on the Caxton investigation.”

“Tell her that he’ll have it by the end of the day.”

Mike was at my desk, using the private line. “It’s a girl!” This time I grabbed the receiver out of his hand. Sarah’s baby had been born during the night, and she was calling to tell us about it, urging us to come visit Janine as soon as possible.

“You okay?”

“Much easier this time. When are you coming up to the hospital? I’ll only be here until Wednesday.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll come see her tonight or tomorrow. Give her a kiss and tell her we’ll all be up the first break we get.” I placed the phone back in its cradle.

“See, Alex, that’s what you should be doing with your life instead of chasing around after scumbags like we do all day.”

“You’re beginning to sound like my grandmother.” I turned to Mike as I sat down at my desk. “Have you ever done one of these before? I mean, a search warrant based on a dog as the informant?”

“No, but I got the officer right outside who knows how.” He walked to the door of my office and signaled to a plainclothes cop who was reading the Daily News on a chair in the hallway. “This is Detective Loquesto,” he said, introducing me to a sandy-haired man with a crooked smile that seemed to align with his long, hooked nose. “Armando, meet Alex Cooper.”

“Good to meet you. Thanks for the break.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Tego did it. Latin word for ‘I protect.’ I’m just the handler; the dog does the heavy lifting.”

“Can you walk me through the affidavit?”

“No problem-do it all the time.”

I pulled up my standard search warrant application form on the computer, quickly punching in the information Chapman fed me about the target automobile, a ’ 91 light blue Chevy wagon, partial vehicle identification number 6683493, registered to Omar Sheffield.

“How’d you connect Sheffield to one of the Caxton galleries?” I asked.

Mercer spoke up. “Caxton’s aide, Maurizio, faxed me a list of all the employees. It was on my desk when I walked in today. Also had the names of some of Denise’s clients-said we’d have to get the rest of them from Daughtry.”

I fleshed out the paragraph delineating that there is reasonable cause to believe that we might find blood, hair, fibers, fingerprints, and other evidence of the presence of the body of Denise Caxton. Then I added in the “moreover” clause, asking the judge to believe that this property was used to commit or conceal the commission of a crime.

It was essential to explain to the court how, when, and where the body of the deceased had been found, and that her death was the result of a homicide. When I finished that paragraph, I looked up at Armando for help. “Now what?”

“You gotta throw in some background about me and Tego.”

I typed in his name and shield. “Your command?”

“NYPD Emergency Services, K- 9 Unit.” He told me how many years he’d been on the force and what his training had been to qualify him for this special duty. “Tego’s got four years on the job-specializing in cadaver duty.”

“What?” I knew German shepherds were used to great advantage in police work, trained to identify the scents of bomb materials and controlled substances. This one was new to me.

“True. He’s like Chapman-death is his specialty. Sniffs it out and loves it.”

“How do you train them for that?”

“There are a couple of chemicals that simulate cadaver odors-”

“Yeah, Coop, and Chanel doesn’t make ’em,” Mike cut in. “So don’t try and seduce me by dousing yourself in ’em.”

Armando continued. “They’re called Cadaverine and Pseudocorpse-both are artificial commercial scents. The dogs practice by smelling body parts, corpses, crime scene areas. Then we sprinkle some of the fake stuff on items like you’d find at a scene and let them go to work.”

“Tell her what you give them when they come up with a body.”

“Three treats and a rawhide pull toy, just like if he’d brought home your missing slipper.”

I improvised a few paragraphs about Tego’s training and the fact that he had completed more than sixty tests in the company of Detective Loquesto.

“What else do I need?”

“You gotta say what the dog did when he got to the target. The Chevy was parked in a row of nine cars. In training we call it a ‘marked reaction,’ which-”

“What’d he do, exactly?”

Chapman was impatient and anxious for me to complete the warrant. “He went ape, like you do when you see Alex Trebek. Drooling, panting-”

“Pretty close,” Loquesto said. “He sniffed next to the right rear passenger door, then ran around to the back of the wagon. He jumped up against it and began pawing at it, whining and scratching like it’d get him inside. I looked in- window was slightly tinted-and there’s a dark stain on a canvas-colored matting. Then I pulled Tego away and took him one at a time to the doors of each other car. No reaction at all.”

I finished the application with the routine language, respectfully asking the court for a warrant and order of seizure. “As soon as the lunch break is over, we’ll go down and get the judge who’s sitting in the arraignment part to sign it, okay? Anybody want me to call in something to eat?”

“Nah, we’ll grab a bite on our way to the Bronx.”

“Okay. I’ll open a grand jury investigation this afternoon so I can start some phone company subpoenas for muds and luds on the Caxton telephones-home and galleries.” Contrary to what most people thought, prosecutors have no power to subpoena people or evidence to their offices. It was only the authority of the grand jury in New York, not the district attorneys, that enabled the request for a witness to produce documentary evidence. “Who’s looking for Omar?”

“ My job,” Mercer said. “Since the gallery’s closed today, there’s no activity at all. The address on the Motor Vehicles Bureau records-for Omar’s residence-is in Brooklyn.”

“Before I came up to the courtroom,” Mike went on, “I called the boss at the Eighty-fourth Precinct and asked them to do a drive-by of that address. Desk sergeant beeped me back and said it’s a burned-out building. Mercer’ll be working on it this afternoon.”

My paralegal, Maxine, came into the room and greeted the trio of cops. “This looks like the wrong time to ask, but what do I do with a walk-in who just arrived now for her ten-thirty appointment?”

“Who is she?” I looked at my watch, noting that the woman was more than three hours late.

“Her name’s Unique Matthews. Says she’s here to see Janice-O’Riley, but Janice has to do a preliminary hearing all afternoon.”

“This one’s the prostitute who was raped at gunpoint by the trucker on Houston Street, right?”

“Yep.” Maxine smiled and motioned discreetly with her thumb for me to look out the doorway to Laura’s desk. A young woman was towering over my secretary, balancing on four-inch platform sandals with straps that wrapped up to her knees. The cheeks of her buttocks were hanging well below the bottom of her shorts, and her cleavage strained against the skimpy cut of her fuchsia cotton tank T-shirt, exposing a tattoo of Mickey Mouse on her inner left breast, outlined against her dark skin. Unique was chewing a wad of gum and sipping from a large bottle of Yoo-Hoo.

I called out to the witness, knowing that there would be no particularly good reason for her tardiness. “Unique, how come you’re so late today? You were supposed to testify this morning.”

She took the straw out of her mouth and sneered at me, certain that I could not understand how hard it had been to rouse herself for something as relatively unimportant as her court appearance. “I overslept.”

“Why don’t you take her across the street to Catherine’s office?” I said to Max. This was going to take more experience and a firmer hand than Janice had with these cases. “Let her work with Unique for a couple of hours.”

Chapman patted Max on the back. “Remind O’Riley of Cooper’s basic commands. Never make a morning appointment for a hooker. Like vampires, they don’t thrive in daylight. C’mon, blondie. Let Mercer get on his way. Me and Armando’ll come down to court with you to get the warrant signed.”

“Armando and I.”

“What else do you do in your spare time besides give grammar lessons? Wellesley meets the NYPD. Now that’s an exercise in futility.”

I stopped at Laura’s desk and asked her to check the docket assignment sheet. “Who’s sitting in arraignments this week?”

“You’ve got Roger Hayes in AR 1 and John Reick in AR 2.”

Mercer chided me. “Judge shopping, Alex? My money’s on AR 1. I’ll check in with both of you as soon as I get back from Brooklyn.”

Mike, Armando, and I took the circuitous route to the first-floor arraignment parts, down the interior stairway one flight and over to the elevator bank that serviced the courtrooms and stopped on only a single floor of the District Attorney’s Office, as a security measure. As usual the wait for a functioning elevator going in the right direction seemed interminable. And walking the hallways with Chapman was more of a social occasion than a business trip. He had worked with and partied with every senior assistant in the office at one time or another. He was a legendary storyteller, a great foil for people’s jokes, and the best investigator that most of us would ever encounter in the NYPD.

The double swinging doors of AR 1 pushed open as I entered behind Mike. Families and friends of prisoners arrested within the last twenty-four hours and awaiting their first appearances before the judge filled rows of benches on both sides of the room. Some mothers looked tearful and anxious, waiting for word from the Legal Aid attorneys that their sons would be coming home today, while other relatives slept soundly despite the noise and activity, clearly accustomed to the routine of this process.

We made our way down to the front row, saved for attorneys and police officers, and I scooted into the only available seat, between two uniformed cops who were dozing until their cases were called. Mike and Armando sat behind me, scrunched between an elderly Hasidic Jew dressed in his traditional black overcoat and an obese Latina woman who was whining some kind of prayer over and over again under her breath.

The air-conditioning wasn’t working and the windows were so tall in the two-story room that there was no way for the crew to open them for fresh air. Everyone in the well of the courtroom-lawyers, stenographer, officers, and clerks-was fanning with different files or sheaves of papers. The stench was unbearable.

As soon as Judge Hayes made eye contact with me, he waved me up to the bench. As I rose, Chapman grabbed my shoulder. “I’m coming with you. This place smells like a broad I used to date.”

“May we approach, Your Honor?” I asked as I closed the swinging gate that separated the benches from the counsel tables.

“Absolutely, Ms. Cooper. We’ll take a ten-minute recess, folks,” Hayes announced, eliciting groans from almost everyone in the gallery. “Why don’t we all go into the robing room? Will we need a reporter?”

“Yes sir.”

Hayes had been one of my first supervisors in the District Attorney’s Office when I started there, more than ten years ago. I respected his judgment and valued his guidance and friendship enormously.

Mike, Armando, and I followed Hayes out of the courtroom and into the small chambers behind it that served the arraignment part. He normally sat as a trial jurist in Supreme Court but was serving a week’s rotation in this duty since so many of the judges took vacation time during July and August. Hayes greeted Mike and me warmly, and we introduced him to Armando.

“I’d tell you to make yourselves comfortable, but that’s obviously not possible.”

The small room was bare except for an old wooden desk, three chairs, and a black rotary telephone that hung on the wall. It was painted the institutional green that must have been bought in vatloads by the city of New York fifty years ago and was now chipped and peeling from every corner and molding. Next to the phone, written on the wall in ink, were the numbers of most of the delis and pizza joints within a mile’s radius, jotted there by lazy court officers who called out for deliveries during the meal break of night court.

I explained our visit to the judge, and we went on the record with the stenographer so that he could make the appropriate inquiries before signing the warrant.

“Everything seems to be in order, Alex.” He initialed the papers and chatted with Mike while I went back to the clerk to have the official seal put on the documents. As the court officer gaveled the crowd back into order and Hayes resumed his position on the bench, we left the courtroom with exactly what we needed to move the investigation forward.

The rear entrance of the immense Criminal Courts Building was adjacent to AR 1. Mike took his copy of the paperwork from me, and he and Armando headed for the door while I started to retrace my steps back up to my office.

“I’ll call you as soon as we’re done checking out the wagon. Wanna meet Mercer and me for dinner?”

“Sure. Cocktails and Jeopardy! at my place, then we’ll go somewhere in the neighborhood.”

Upstairs on the eighth floor, Laura greeted me with word that Patrick McKinney, deputy chief of the Trial Division, wanted to see me. The chief, Rod Squires, was on summer vacation and McKinney would use all the muscle he could to make me answer to him and try to micromanage my case. I thanked Laura for the message, then did my best to ignore that she had given it to me. I knew I could deal directly with Battaglia on something as major as the Caxton murder.

I called my friend Rose Malone, in the D.A.’s suite, and told her that I was ready to update the boss whenever it was convenient for him. Things looked good, I assured her, since the cops had already found a critical link to the deceased’s disappearance. I was optimistic enough to think this early break would signal a speedy conclusion to the investigation. Battaglia was on his way to Albany for a meeting with the governor on the legislative agenda, so I knew I was off the hook for the rest of the day.

The intercom buzzed. Laura reported there was a woman on the line who refused to give her name and would speak only to me. She said she had some things to tell me about Denise Caxton.

“Put the call through on my private line and close the door so no one interrupts me.” I pressed the flashing light on my dial pad. “This is Alexandra Cooper.”

“Thank you for taking the call. I thought you might be interested in some personal information I have about Deni Caxton.”

“Yes, but it would also help me if you would tell me with whom I’m speaking.”

My request was met by silence.

“Hello?” I asked, getting no response. At least she hadn’t hung up, so I didn’t want to push her too hard. “I hope you can understand that we get an awful lot of crank calls whenever our names appear in the paper on a sensational case. It just helps me to know that I’m dealing with someone who really has something useful to say.” And who isn’t wasting my time.

Still a pause. Then, “I’ll give you my name, but I’d like a few assurances first.”

“That’s not unreasonable. May I ask what they are?”

“I can’t have my name connected with this case in the papers. Not in any way. Can you promise me that?”

Impossible. “All I can promise is that no one will get your name from us. You have my word that it is not the kind of thing we would ever give to the press. But obviously, since I have no idea what your connection is-either to Denise or to the investigation-I simply have no idea how you figure in the matter at all. Perhaps reporters already know who you are.”

I was clearly fishing now, and she was just as clearly getting agitated. “I have nothing to do with the case. I’m a friend of Deni’s, that’s all. One of her oldest friends. I know things about her that I doubt anyone else knows. Very intimate things. Perhaps they’ll be useful to you, perhaps they won’t. But I thought I’d be more comfortable talking with you than with a bunch of detectives.”

“And your other requests?”

“Just one other, really. Lowell Caxton must never know I’ve spoken with you.”

“That’s easy. He’s a witness in this matter. We’d have no business telling him where or from whom we get our information.”

“He’s terribly well connected, Ms. Cooper. I’m afraid it’s more difficult to keep secrets from him than you might think. That was one of Deni’s biggest problems.”

“Would you be willing to meet with me this afternoon?” I glanced at the clock on the wall, and it was already after three. “Or this evening?”

“I’m coming into New York late tonight. I can meet with you tomorrow.”

“Let me give you the address of my office-”

“No, I won’t come there. I don’t want some tabloid photographer camped out on your doorstep snapping witnesses as they go in and out of the building.”

Rivera Live, Burden of Proof, and Court TV had been real wake-up calls to the public about the way high-profile cases frequently spin out of control.

“We’re closer to a solution than you might think,” I said to ease her concerns, sure in my own mind that Omar Sheffield would be the key to Deni’s disappearance. “But I’ll be happy to meet you at your home, if you prefer.”

“My hotel, if you don’t mind. I’ll call you during the day, and perhaps you can meet with me by late afternoon. The name is Seven. Marilyn Seven.”

“Thank you for that, Ms. Seven. I appreciate it. Where will you be staying?”

The click on the other end of the phone reminded me that she didn’t trust me or the system all that much. I went back into our office E-mail and sent one of my regular messages to my colleague who ran the computer section’s Investigative Support Services, Jim Winright.

CooperA to WinrightJ: Can you please run me a background check on a woman named Marilyn Seven? Sorry, I’ve got no date of birth, no social security, no residential address. Nothing but a name. It’s a long shot, but could you see if you can come up with anything before I meet with her tomorrow? Thanks, as always.

With Jim’s skills and a bit of luck, the not-socommonname search might call up something on his database, whether out-of-state driver’s registration records, licensed professional information (if her occupation required some kind of government control), property ownership records, or even a Dun amp; Bradstreet report. It would help me not to go to the meeting blind, so that I could better evaluate whatever it was that Marilyn Seven had to barter.

When I finished drafting the subpoenas, which Laura could format and print, I ran upstairs to the ninth-floor grand jury room, to open an investigation into the death of Denise Caxton. Several of the jurors whispered to one another as I spoke, recognizing the deceased’s name from the newspaper accounts. I was out of the chamber as quickly as I had entered it, and on my way back to my desk.

“Call Catherine or Marisa,” Laura told me. “They want to make arrangements to go to the hospital tomorrow to see Sarah and the baby. And Kim McFadden, from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, called. Here’s her extension.”

I took the slip of paper from Laura and dialed the number immediately. I hadn’t seen Kim, who was a federal prosecutor, in months. Our offices often tangled when investigations crossed jurisdictional lines and our bosses became territorial, but she and I had been friends since she started to date one of my colleagues, several years ago.

“Sorry I’ve been so out of touch,” I began our conversation. “Can we make a lunch date for later in the month, when things slow down here?”

“That’d be good, Alex, but it’s not the reason I’m calling. Got the clearance from the top to give you a heads-up on this, once I saw you were handling the Caxton case.”

“Just when I was beginning to think this was a ground ball, don’t tell me it’s going to get muddier. My guys think it’s a disgruntled employee-raped and dumped her in the water. Probably just hired the wrong guy. I’m waiting for the results on his rap sheet now, with a team of detectives out looking for the subject.”

“That’s probably what you’ve got, then. Just thought that you should know-and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone other than Battaglia-that we’ve had a major investigation under way with Justice. Price-fixing by auction houses and art dealers. We’ve had subpoenas out for months-you may have seen the story in the Times. ”

“Well, if I did, I didn’t pay any attention to it. I don’t remember a thing about it.”

“We’re looking at it as an antitrust matter. Know what bid rigging is?”

“Not in the art world. Bring me up to speed, Kim, and the next time you get a sexual assault on federal property, I’ll walk you through it.” I said it only half in jest, since once every few years their office actually claimed jurisdiction for a rape in a Veterans Administration hospital or on a military base.

“The claim has been that some of the biggest art dealers in the city have formed a ring agreeing not to bid against each other on paintings in which they all have an interest. That collusion keeps the price down at auctions-an illegal restraint, really. Then the participating dealers hold what’s called a ‘knockout.’ ”

“Which is…?”

“That’s a second auction-but a secret one. The dealer who got the piece at the public auction sells it off for a much higher price, and then the members of the ring all split the profits. The agents who’ve been investigating this for years can lay out the whole thing for your team.”

“Any direct connection to Denise Caxton?”

“Nothing certain yet. But records have been subpoenaed from both Lowell and Denise Caxton, Bryan Daughtry, and quite honestly, a cast of thousands. All the big dealers are being called down here-Leo Castelli, Knoedler, Pace Wildenstein. They’re all in the contemporary field. David Findlay and Acquavella in modern and Impressionist works. Even Sotheby’s and Christie’s have gotten those unfriendly little slips of paper. I’m not saying any of these places are targets-there’s no allegation they did anything wrong or participated in the knockouts-but we’re trying to get a handle on the nature and extent of the scam.”

“Any results yet?”

“We’re getting buried in an avalanche. Travel logs, phone records, invoices from business transactions, correspondence between the auction houses and some of the dealers.”

“Can I bring my detectives over later in the week if we don’t settle everything in the next twenty-four hours?”

“That’s why I called. No reason for you to reinvent the wheel. If you’re going to have the legal authority to request the same kind of documentation, maybe we can shortcut some of this for you.”

“Thanks a million, Kim. I’ll call you in a day or two.”

There was enough to keep me busy at my desk until after six, so I successfully avoided contact with McKinney through the end of the day. I drove home, went upstairs, turned on all my air conditioners, and filled the ice bucket in anticipation of the arrival of Mercer and Mike. I called Lumi, who owned the wonderful Italian restaurant over on Lexington Avenue, and made a reservation for the three of us at eight o’clock, after confirming that she had Mercer’s favorite pasta on the menu tonight-cavatelli with peas and prosciutto. I settled in to watch the end of the evening news, knowing that very little would keep Mike from missing the Final Jeopardy question at seven twenty-five.

I had told the doormen that they didn’t need to announce either of the detectives, who were well known to the staff in the building. Mercer was the first to come through my front door, and we decided there was no reason at all to wait for Mike before we poured our first drink. I fixed him a Ketel One with two olives and lots of ice before filling my own glass with Dewar’s.

“What’d you find out in Brooklyn?”

“I found out that the last time anyone lived at the address given on Omar Sheffield’s automobile registration, he wasn’t even a glimmer in his momma’s eye. The whole block is a wreck. The Eight-four squad had some informants in the ’hood that they rousted for me, but nobody ever heard of Omar. I spent three hours pounding that hot pavement and every minute of it was wasted time. Hope Chapman did better than I did. Zip, zero, nada.”

He sipped on his vodka while I started to tell him about my phone calls from Marilyn Seven and Kim McFadden.

Mike came in minutes later and walked straight to the den, checking the screen and pouring himself a drink before he took over the conversation with the results of their search.

“I think I’m asking for a new partner. Gimme one of those four-legged sniffers any day. Man, I’ve worked with detectives so bad they couldn’t find dog shit at the pound.”

Mercer smiled over at me. “I guess this means Tego was on the money.”

“Emergency Services broke into the car. No question about it-there was definitely a body in there. Backseat is down, and there’s a big piece of sailcloth laid out full length, with a bloodstain on top. It was folded over, so we opened it up-you know what I mean? It was like the body had been sandwiched in between. Huge bloodstain, kinda matching the hole in Denise’s head. Even some hair. And a pair of lace panties- beige, size four.”

“What did you do with them?”

“Everything’s vouchered. Going directly over to the lab. They’ll run the DNA tests at the M.E.’s Office. We could have preliminary results within forty-eight hours.”

In the mid- 1980 s, when the lawyers in my office had first been introduced to DNA technology and the science of genetic fingerprinting, it took three or four months to obtain results from the private labs to which materials were sent for testing. Now the city had established its own laboratory, and the methodology had changed so dramatically that we could include or eliminate suspects and match samples to victims or defendants in a matter of several days.

“Tonight’s Final Jeopardy category is Bob Dylan’s Music,” announced Alex Trebek as he led into a commercial break and Mike sssshush ed us into silence.

“I’m out. I do not know anything about this one,” Mercer said, standing to freshen his drink.

“I’ll go twenty,” I offered, comfortable with the category.

“Let’s keep it at ten,” Mike said. That was a sure sign that he didn’t have a clue.

“Nope, it’s twenty or I’m not betting.”

He reluctantly put his money on the table.

“Let’s show our contestants the answer, ladies and gentlemen.” Trebek read along with the words that were revealed on the screen: “Famous rock musician who plays the organ on Dylan’s ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ Ooh, that’s a tough one, folks.”

The theme music played as Chapman cursed, noticing the smile on my face. “Double or nothing?” I asked.

“Talk about obscure, how could you possibly know this? No way.”

The bioethics professor from Oregon shook his head and didn’t even attempt an answer. The mother of eleven from Nevada and the crab farmer from Delaware both guessed wrong, as Trebek was sorry to tell them.

Mike’s beeper gave off with a loud series of noises as I put my response in the appropriate question form. “Who is Al Kooper?” I asked. “Impossible for me to forget, right?”

“A Jewish organist, no doubt,” he said, squinting at the number after he took the device off his waistband. “Turn to Comedy Central. Let’s watch Win Ben Stein’s Money before we go eat.”

We had a new quiz show favorite in the seven thirty time slot, so I switched channels and passed Mike the portable phone. “Who’s the beep from?”

“It’s the lieutenant’s line,” he said, dialing the number at the squad. “Hey, Loo, what’s up?”

“ What? How certain are they?”

I muted the television sound while Mercer and I waited to hear what seemed so surprising to Mike.

“Mercer Wallace is with me. We’ll get over there right away. No, no-we’re just ten minutes away.” He hung up the phone and handed it back to me.

“I’ll start with the good news. They found Omar Sheffield.”

“Where?” Mercer and I spoke at once.

“In the culvert next to the railroad tracks, between Tenth and Eleventh near Thirty-sixth Street. Dead. Very, very dead. Run over by a freight train.”